A
matter of romance
(This is graphic erotica be warned)
Two tall
crimson candles glow from the table when I come in, an unexpected touch after I
presumed I'd come for a business meeting, and you, with an evening dress so soft
and revealing, I blush just looking at you, at the swell of your pointed
breasts, and the crease where the top of your stockings meet. Only then am I
aware of the soft music, some familiar tune of my youth consigned to violins
and cellos, leaving me and my hormones swaying on your door step.
"Is
your boyfriend home?" I ask, only then beginning to suspect the ruse. Business meeting? In your apartment?
I should have guessed something by the tone of your voice on the phone, far
from the chit chat we'd exchanged in our meetings in the library. You never
asked me to your apartment before, though I have thought of you far too often
for my own good.
You don't
answer me, except with a devious little smile, your soft lips painted pink as
you walk away from me.
"Make
yourself confortable," you say, "while I get dinner ready."
You pause at
the table, looking over the assemblage of plates and silverware, things far too
good for any one like me, shimmering in the dim light as you strike a match and
light the first of the two candles -- your think fingers easing down the taper
wax to rounded holder, lingering over this, your sharp nails highlighted
against their curved surface. Then, slowly, you repeat the ceremony for the
next candle, eyeing me through the whole thing, smiling at me as if to ask:
"Are you getting my message?"
I can say
nothing, finding it difficult to think and even more difficult to swallow. I
have a wife and I have no business having the kind of thoughts just then
running through my head. Sweat dribbles down my cheek to the edge of my mouth,
its salt so sharp it stabs my tongue when I lick at it, and you, staring at my
mouth, seemed to recieve a message from me, and your smile broadens.
"I'll
only be a minute," you say and then vanish into the kitchen to leave me in
my growing discomfort, my hands trying to readjust the swell that has suddenly
grown on the inside of my pants, telling me that I should leave before things
get too far out of hand.
This is not
the first time I've felt this way or reacted in this way to you. I've felt your
haunting presence from the first time I met you, something in your smell
stirring me into a kind of insanity. I've always found it impossible to think
straight around you, my stare always wandering to the wrong places, to the
sudden hardening of your nipple through your dress, or the swell of your breast
showing from your slightly open blouse. You've haunted every meeting, stirring
around in the background, your voice sending stabbing pains into my crotch.
If anyone
ever noticed during our meetings in public, they showed no sign, even when I
stared rudely at you, drinking you in -- believing at those moments that you
didn't notice me. It was a shameful bit of voyeerism on my part, allowing me
the luxury of making love to you in my mind. Each visit would leave me making
excuses as to why I needed to use your bathroom and why the toilet paper clings
to my fingers when I leave.
I’m married,
I told myself again and again, feeling guilty for each instance. Happily
married to a woman I care about, happily and with a good sex life, and
yet, my wife never created the kind of electricity inside me as you create,
sparks flying from the tip of my penis to the tip of my nose everytime I
breathe the same air as you.
This
is the reason I've always kept my distance with you, refusing even the
accidental moment when we should find ourselves alone in the same room. In
public, I made a point of keeping other people around us. If suddenly in a room
alone with you, I went to the restroom, or I
found an excuse to go get something from my car.
Even
in my mind, I've fought desire of you, afraid that if I let my mind's fingers
reach for your silky breasts that my real fingers would suddenly feel the
unquenshable desire to repeat the act, aching to touch and carress your
rose-colored nipple. But my mind is hardly as strong as all that. While I could
control it during the day, clamping down on every random thought, at night, in
my dreams, I ravished you. This is particularly true for the few days after
meeting, when you and the vision of you stayed freshest in my mind.
Not
only did I not avoid being alone with you in my dreams, I sought your company,
and when other people vanished from my dreams, I came to you, seating
myself beside you on the same couch and pressed my mouth against yours, easing
my tongue out between our lips to taste you, to lead your tongue to meet mine.
The whole time, my dream fingers worked at the buttons of your dress, popping
each open one aggrivating button at a time, until I could slip my hand
underneath, your softness overwhelming me for a moment, making me catch my
breath.
For in
my dreams you felt as soft as any silk, your skin so creamy I could lap at it
like a cat, drowning myself in you -- the perfect suicide. Inch by inch my
hungry fingers would seek out your breasts, finding to my surprise -- and
absolute delight -- that you wore no bra and that what I confronted was your
flesh itself, your breasts as soft yet firm as my imagination could make them,
and your nipple as hard as my cock, my forefinger moving around the base,
feeling the place where the softness and hardness came together, my finger
circling up until touching the very tip, finding that tip slightly moist.
In
some dreams, I never got this far, or directed my
attention to less obvious places of desire. Sometimes, I didn't need to undress
you at all, finding that your hand was enough, with my fingers working along
yours, playfully dancing over the back of your hand, then around the wrist,
touching the palm of your hand as if it was an object of sex, feeling your
stiffen all the way up to your shoulder, giving off a little shiver of delight,
each touch bringing as much pain to me as delight. But each dream ended the
same way with someone charging in, demanding to know what I was doing, and I'd
wake myself dripping white globs I would hastily wipe up with the edge of the
sheet to keep my wife from noticing.